


Stop Being So Perfect

by valda



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valda/pseuds/valda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because perfectly imperfect means you’re imperfect sometimes.</p>
<p>Because love doesn’t solve everything.</p>
<p>Because you can’t depend on someone else to make you happy.</p>
<p>Because when you live with someone, you get everything: their best days and their worst days.</p>
<p>Because no relationship is perfect; it becomes perfect when you accept it for what it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Being So Perfect

“Okay, Carlos, just—no. Just—it’s not happening. No.”

Cecil disentangled himself from the riot of pillows and blankets, windmilling his way out of Carlos’ arms and off the couch. “I’m just—bleh.”

He did not want snuggly cuddles. He didn’t want sex, either. He didn’t want Carlos touching him at all, and if he was quite honest he didn’t even want him to be in the same room.

He did not say those things.

“I’m just—gonna go read. Okay?”

“Sure, sweetie,” Carlos said, blinking up at him with those big, rich, beautiful brown eyes. He was still wrapped up in a heaping tangle of throws, and he looked, well, just exactly like the little cutie he was.

It was infuriating.

“Stop being so perfect,” Cecil snapped, and he stalked out of the room.

Flouncing into the bedroom, Cecil snatched a municipally-approved book off the nightstand and flung it onto the bed. He flopped onto his stomach, wrenched the book open to a random page, and began hate-reading. Yes, yes, fine, something about radiators, and the price of lemons in Svitz. Wonderful. Was this a travelogue or a novel? He couldn’t remember.

Cecil hurled the book back onto the nightstand and rolled onto his back. The book was stupid, everything was stupid, _life_ was stupid. He threw his arms up over his head, tangling his fingers into the elaborate curling vine design of their metal headboard. “Bah,” he said, staring so hotly at the ceiling that it really should have burst into flame, and he was, quite frankly, pretty annoyed that it wasn’t obliging.

Carlos _could_ have followed him in here, if he _cared_. Maybe he still would. Ugh, but Cecil did _not_ want to deal with that right now. _Leave me alone, Carlos_ , he seethed.

Minutes passed with no sound but Cecil’s own angry huffs of breath. So Carlos _wasn’t_ going to come in here after him. Whatever. What did Cecil care? It was _fine_. Everything was just _super_.

He let go of the headboard and crossed his arms over his chest, turning his head away from the door. For what seemed like a century he stared sightlessly at the window and the darkening sky beyond. Finally, with some difficulty and no small amount of twitching, Cecil slipped into a restless sleep.

~

The room was utterly black when his eyes blearily blinked open. He smacked an arm across Carlos’ side of the bed and found it empty. Then he reached up to rub his eyes and discovered he’d fallen asleep with his glasses on.

“Ugh,” he said aloud, pushing himself up to a sitting position, then standing and groping blindly for the door.

The hallway was dark too, as was the living room. Cecil stomped his way rather noisily to the kitchen—he hadn’t even bothered to take his shoes off—and flipped on the light with a loud click. “Huh,” he said, surveying the mess of dirty dishes and pans in the sink. “ _That’s_ great.”

“Babe?” Carlos’ sleepy voice floated in from the living room. “That you?”  
Cecil shoved a dirty plate, setting the whole mountain of dishes to clinking. “Yep,” he said in as even a voice as he could manage.

“There’s some dinner for you in the fridge.” Carlos shuffled in then, yawning and scratching at the back of his head. He was wrapped up in one of the throw blankets and, of course, looked absolutely adorable.

Cecil scowled and opened the refrigerator. Sure enough, there was a plate of food in there, covered in plastic wrap, and there was even a note with reheating instructions and little hearts drawn in municipal food paste.

How obnoxious.

Carlos was being perfect, again.

Cecil snatched the plate out of the fridge and slammed the door shut. He almost sort of hated Carlos, right now.

Well. No.

That was going a bit far.

Cecil dropped the plate into the microwave with a clatter.

“Ceec?” Carlos asked tentatively.

“Yeah?” Cecil bit out.

“I love you.”

Cecil rounded on him. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

Carlos backpedaled, clutching the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Cecil closed the distance between them, going up on his toes and stabbing a finger into Carlos’ chest. “Is that some sort of _guilt trip_? Making it _perfectly clear_ who’s being unreasonable, are you?”

“N-no,” Carlos stammered, eyes wide. “I’m sorry, honey, I didn’t mean anything, except that I love you, and I want you to feel better.”

“Yeah, well,” Cecil huffed, dropping back down onto his heels and turning back to the microwave, “I don’t see _that_ happening anytime soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said again, quietly. “Do you want—I mean—I’ll just—” In his peripheral vision Cecil could see Carlos’ fingers twisting in the blanket as his gaze dropped to the floor. Abruptly, Carlos turned and slipped out of the kitchen.

“Fine,” Cecil muttered. “Just _fine_.”

He retrieved the plate from the microwave and ate his dinner cold at the kitchen table. It would have been better hot. Carlos would have appreciated it if he had actually followed the reheating instructions, too. But whatever. He was eating it this way.

As he took his last bite, Cecil scowled at the overflowing sink. He stood, dumped his plate on top of the rest, then began filling the basin with water.

“Oh, baby, I was going to do those later,” Carlos called from the other room.

“They need to be done _now_ , Carlos, do you want to attract _jillrabbits_?” Cecil spat.

“So I’ll do them now,” Carlos said, reentering the kitchen and joining Cecil at the sink.

Cecil nudged him away with his shoulder, not gently. “I’m doing them,” he grit out. “It’s _fine_.”

Carlos was quiet for a moment, and then he let out a huff of breath. “Cecil,” he said, “you’re being a _jerk_.”

Cecil gripped the counter and stared hard at one of the dirty plates, at a long sauce stain that looked a little bit like the Brown Stone Spire. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “Sorry.”

“You don’t _sound_ sorry,” Carlos said, and his voice was so petulant Cecil wanted to scream.

“Fine, I’m _not_ sorry,” Cecil seethed. “Can you just—just leave me alone. Everything you do is pissing me off.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Carlos said, throwing his hands up. “Whatever, Cecil.” He stormed back out of the kitchen, and shortly Cecil heard the sound of the TV coming on. The droning, half-asleep voice of Lee Marvin let Cecil know Carlos had selected a documentary about chemical bond notation.

“Typical,” he muttered, thrusting his hands into the soapy water and setting to work on the dishes.

~

He slept through his alarm the next morning, finally awakening only when the sun was high enough to pour directly through the window and into his face. He groaned, turned over, and blinked at the clock.

Then he threw himself out of bed so fast his legs got caught in the sheets and he crashed to the floor.

“Shit!” was the only appropriate word for this situation.

Cecil barely had time to shower and did _not_ have time to make coffee. 

Fortunately, Carlos was already gone to the lab, so at least he didn’t have to worry about _that_.

Ugh.

Work was miserable. First, Station Management sent him a fearful envelope reprimanding him for his attire. (He’d foregone a suit in favor of watermelon-patterned leggings and a plaid silk poncho, because he was, quite frankly, tired of his suits, especially now that they were all covered in moth holes. It seemed Station Management would have been okay with this if he hadn’t completed the ensemble with cowboy boot sandals, but nothing else would have _worked_ with this outfit.)

Then there had been the matter of the actual broadcast, which felt…uneven, incomplete, unsatisfying. There’d been no special feature, just the same old boring stuff: the Whispering Forest was upside-down, its roots growing into the heavens and its limbs barely brushing the ground; traffic was as awful as ever due to a bout of ennui that had closed off Route 800; City Council had outlawed thinking about blueberry pie (which was difficult to report without thinking about).

Now, as he slouched home in the light of the waning sun, boot-sandals clomping against the sidewalk, Cecil realized he still needed to Do Something about Carlos.

Gods, he’d been such an ass.

Carlos hadn’t done anything wrong. Carlos didn’t know how to read Cecil’s mind. Carlos was just being…Carlos.

Yesterday, he couldn’t stand the thought of even being in the same _room_ with Carlos. Today he wanted nothing more than to curl up in his arms.

“Well _that’s_ not likely, is it?” he hissed at himself, slowing his stride and hugging his elbows. What could he even _say_?

Carlos’ coupe was parked outside when he made it to the house. Cecil drew a breath, letting it out in a long sigh before easing the front door open. “Um. Carlos?” he called timidly.

“Kitchen,” came a very short answer in a very flat voice.

Cecil swallowed and closed the door. “Um,” he said, moving through the entryway and rounding the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen. Carlos was at the stove, stir-frying a wok full of screaming vegetables. Cecil stopped several paces away. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Carlos said, still in that flat voice. He didn’t even turn his head.

Cecil closed his eyes, opened them again, and forced himself to step forward to Carlos’ side. He took a breath.

“I’m sorry—” he said, and then he broke off, because Carlos had just said the same thing. “Wait. Why are _you_ sorry?”

Carlos gave the vegetables a somewhat violent stir. He still hadn’t looked at Cecil. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset,” he said. “It didn’t help anything.”

“You had _every right_ to be upset,” Cecil stressed. He wanted to touch Carlos, to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t dare. “I was an _asshole_.”

Carlos was quiet. One of the vegetables made to escape the wok, and he rapped it soundly over the head with the bamboo spoon in his hand, knocking it back into the mix. “Still,” he said.

“No, okay, but—Carlos,” Cecil said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “I’m sorry. I really am. You don’t deserve to be treated that way, _ever_.”

Carlos finally looked up shyly through his eyelashes. He was taller than Cecil, but somehow he managed to always look so cute. Cecil loved him, and he said so.

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

“I love you too.”

~

Dinner was quiet. Cecil mostly stared at his food, only glancing up every now and then to see that Carlos was doing the same thing. He wanted things to be right again, he wanted things to be normal. But…

“Carlos,” he said, putting down his fork, “I was in a terrible mood yesterday. And there was nothing you could do. It was all me. It was my thing. I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. But—but I can’t promise you that I won’t feel that way again. That there won’t be a time when—when I just—don’t want to be around you.” He glared into his plate of vegetables, hating himself. “I’m sorry.”

Carlos didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he reached out, took Cecil’s hand. “Okay,” he said.

Cecil looked up. “Okay?”

Carlos gave him a wry grin. “Okay,” he repeated. “I can live with that, Cecil. I mean…we both live with things. Right?”

Cecil clutched at Carlos’ hand. “Okay,” he said.

The evening ended on the couch with _Cat Ballou_. Cecil sat down awkwardly next to Carlos, pulling a blanket onto both of their laps. Carlos smiled, soft and sweet, and leaned his head on Cecil’s shoulder. “Is this okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Cecil said, relief blossoming through his chest. It was more than okay. It was everything he wanted. Cecil put an arm around Carlos’ shoulders. “It’s perfect.”


End file.
